Wicked Becomes You Page 13

  Mr. Barrington had a fine, square chin, with a cleft that became visible when he laughed. “Have you encountered so many, then?”

  “Oh, every day! Beasts have a taste for young ladies, you know.”

  “But one can’t blame them when the young lady is so fetching.” He took a step toward her. “I hope none have taken a bite from you, here in Paris?”

  “You would not believe how well I wield a parasol.”

  “Yet I don’t think you carry one tonight,” he said. “Defenseless as you are, a monster might get ideas.”

  A nervous laugh escaped her. “How lucky I am to have the escort of a gentleman, then.”

  “A gentleman,” he repeated, and now he sounded distinctly amused. “Was it in search of civilization, then, that you walked into the belly of this creature?”

  She stared at him. On a deep breath, she said, “No. It was not.”

  His eyes narrowed. He meant to kiss her now; she could see it in the firming of his mouth. Well, she’d succeeded, then. Why else had she come up here with him if not to have a kiss? She was not a nice girl anymore; she was out to satisfy her curiosity. She could kiss as many gentlemen as she liked, provided they cooperated.

  But did she want to kiss him? She couldn’t even say. It seemed a daring thing to do—to kiss a man inside the elephant at the Moulin Rouge, the most notorious dance hall on the Continent. Such things only happened to wild women, heroines in novels, somebody’s wicked cousin; her friends would never believe it. She would have to work hard, tomorrow, to believe it herself. Perhaps it would change her understanding of herself. She would look in the mirror and see the stamp of this bravery, this absolute sophistication.

  His hand cupped her jaw. She wished his fingers did not feel so damp. He wore his pomade too thick, as well; the sweet scent was overpowering in this small space. Her heart tripped and beat faster as he lifted her chin. He had a mole at the corner of his nose, just behind the curve of his nostril. A racing heart was the hallmark of passion but all she felt was terribly, terribly anxious.

  A dark hair was beginning to sprout from his mole.

  She screwed her eyes shut. She need not look. She could imagine he was someone else. Alex, perhaps—but with a different and far superior personality.

  After a moment, when nothing happened, she opened her eyes again. To her puzzlement, Mr. Barrington had not drawn any closer. He turned her face now toward the light, examining her with a frown. “Do I know you from somewhere?” he asked.

  Oh, goodness. He might well have seen her picture in the London newspapers. There had been a photograph published when her engagement had been announced—each of them. “No,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, his fingers tightening, “I feel certain I do.”

  “Mr. Barrington,” she said. How clumsy his grip was; it had become a hair shy of painful, now. “I think it very likely we move in different circles.”

  “But you look so familiar . . . what did you say your name was?”

  She sighed. What ailed these men that made them tarry and waffle, so? Gentlemen in novels seized ladies and ravished them directly. But Alex hemmed and hawed and then stalked away, and this one insisted on babbling. Couldn’t he simply kiss her and be done with it? The longer she had to look at him, the more stray hairs became apparent. “I didn’t say. But my name is—Lily.” That was the name of the girl in the novel she’d read, who had kissed a stranger beneath the stars and fallen in love. The hero, of course, had not sported a mole.

  “Lily,” he echoed. “Miss Lily . . . ?”

  “Goodrick,” she finished promptly. The surname of the author.

  His eyes narrowed. “Lily Goodrick,” he said, as though testing the syllables. “Miss Lily Goodrick.”

  “Mr. Rollo Barrington,” she said helpfully. “There. Now we are acquainted.”

  He recovered his smile. His thumb stroked down her chin. Nothing ailed him, really, that a pair of tweezers would not cure. “Miss Goodrick, you’re an enchanting little piece. Do you know that?”

  “Remove your hand.”

  She started violently at the sound of Alex’s voice. But Mr. Barrington did not look away from her. “Mr. de Grey,” he said lightly. Mr. de Grey? “Did my men not make it clear to you? I am in Paris for pleasure. I have no interest in discussing business.”

  “Fair enough,” Alex replied calmly. “However, if you do not remove your hand, we’ll soon be discussing how you might reattach it to your wrist.”

  “Oh?” Mr. Barrington released her with a curious little smile. He stepped backward and brushed down his jacket, then slid his hands into his pockets. “Prior claim, is it?”

  Alex stepped between them, a tall, broad-shouldered bulwark, but the hard look he gave her seemed less than reassuring. “Yes,” he said curtly. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

  Mr. Barrington nodded agreeably. “And you, Miss Goodrick—are you in accord with this claim? I confess, I was thinking to propose that we take a tour of Montmartre in the moonlight. But if you bid me, I will abandon that hope.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it. Montmartre. Was there any other word better able to kindle the imagination? Here she was, in the epicenter of everything scandalous in Paris! Who would not wish for a tour?

  Alex took her elbow and delivered a slight, prompting squeeze. A quick glance upward revealed him to be scowling in the very brotherly manner he professed not to own. She did so love a white knight who abandoned her, then acted very ill-tempered upon discovering that she’d found other pursuits to occupy herself.

  “Answer him,” he said softly.

  She gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look. “But what shall I say, monsieur? After all, it isn’t as if I can claim to have had any long acquaintance with”—glancing toward Mr. Barrington, she delicately cleared her throat—“Mr. de Grey.”

  “Oh, not any long acquaintance,” Alex said, “but certainly a thorough one.” His hand slid around her waist and curved firmly over her hip, turning her toward him. She jerked upright from surprise, and he pressed his mouth to hers.

  His lips took hers softly, suggestively. They clung, teasing her mouth to open to him.

  He was kissing her in front of Mr. Barrington.

  He broke away, delivering a soft, hot kiss to the side of her neck, dragging his mouth up to her ear on a hot breath. His teeth closed gently on her lobe. “Behave,” he whispered.

  As he withdrew, he gave her a smile. Such a smile—amused, playful, thoroughly wicked. She had never seen it before. This was the smile he gave the women he seduced.

  It knocked all possible responses straight from her mind.

  Only one certainty remained: she was most definitely not going to behave. The results of that were far more boring.

  “I suppose,” she said on a sigh to Mr. Barrington, “that I will admit to some knowledge of Mr. de Grey, now that he reminds me of it. But his attentions are so inconstant, he can hardly blame me for forgetting.”

  Mr. Barrington’s face cleared. He gave her a sunny smile of perfect understanding. “I am hard-pressed to imagine any man so foolish as to neglect you, Miss Goodrick.”

  Alex’s warm palm cupped her neck, his fingertips dragging lightly down her nape. “Oh, she isn’t neglected,” he murmured, and the roughness in his voice, combined with his touch, sent a small, involuntary shiver over her skin. “She simply likes to complain.”

  Mr. Barrington locked eyes with Alex. “In a soprano?” he asked. “Or a mezzo, would you say?”

  Alex’s hand paused. She divined that as a sign of his confusion. He had no idea she sang. It was a talent inherited from her mother, and one that Mama had never encouraged. “Neither,” she said.

  “A contralto?” Mr. Barrington looked delighted, although it was to Alex that he directed his smile. “Oh, really, Miss Goodrick, now I must hear you sing.”

  Alex matched the smile with one of his own. “Must,” he repeated evenly. “That can be a dangerous word, I find.”


  The brief, fraught silence that followed unnerved Gwen. “I have lately been on tour in the Americas,” she said, attempting to restore the atmosphere to a lighter mood. “I meant to give my voice a rest, but perhaps, as a token of friendship . . .”

  Alex laughed softly. She slanted him a glance, and his eyes met hers, warm, dancing. “Concluded in San Francisco, didn’t it?” he asked. “Your tour, I mean.”

  His collusion briefly threw her off. She regained her smile. “Of course not,” she said warmly. “The cards and drink are rotting your mind, poor man. Absinthe and roulette,” she confided to Mr. Barrington. “Terrible plagues. He is thinking of two years ago, when I was crowned Queen of the Barbary Coast. But this season, I went no further than Chicago. Earthquakes do not agree with me.”

  “And a wise woman, too,” Mr. Barrington said approvingly. “Come now, say you’ll both accompany me to the Chat Noir. We can leave at once, and perhaps convince Miss Goodrick to take the stage.”

  Before she could decide how to reply, a jingling stomp sounded. From behind the screen appeared a dark-haired woman who folded her bare arms over her chest—but not before Gwen got a very good glimpse of what lay beneath: in a word, flesh.

  The slits in her diaphanous rainbow skirts appeared to stop where her hip bones began.

  Goodness. If that was what people were coming inside the elephant for, Gwen thought she had a good deal of ground to cover before she even approached the meaning of daring.

  “Do I dance?” the woman demanded in heavily accented French. “Or do you go elsewhere? Others are waiting.”

  “Oh, dear, our most abject apologies,” Mr. Barrington said. He reached into his coat and produced a banknote, which she snatched up with a sniff before trouncing back behind the screen. “Well?” he asked them. “I confess, I will perish of curiosity if I do not hear Miss Goodrick’s voice now.”

  “As will I,” Alex said, and then defied all her expectations by adding, “but I suppose it is up to the lady.”

  He looked to her with a slight smile.

  Why, he didn’t think she could sing. He was counting on her to produce an excuse.

  She smiled back at him. “To Le Chat Noir, then.”

  Paris’s most infamous café-chantant was small, dark, and narrow, a maze of protruding knees and misplaced elbows and the glowing heads of cigarettes. The walls were covered with bric-a-brac, old copper pans nailed haphazardly next to rusting suits of fake armor, and between these were pinned various scrawled drawings, prints cut out from magazines, the occasional dried flower, somebody’s handkerchief. In the corner, a young man in a heavily patched velvet jacket was adding to the collection by drawing on the wall in charcoal.

  Alex accepted a glass of brandy from one of the waiters, who wore green coats and cocked hats, in a mocking nod to the outfits of Parisian academics. Age and the pungent damp had warped the floorboards, so the three-legged tables sat at drunken slants; when he sat down his drink, it slid an inch before stopping.

  The server loitered at the table a moment to exchange pleasantries with Barrington, who had been greeted, on the way inside, by several hearty slaps from various rough-hewn patrons.

  “I do love bohemia,” Barrington sighed when the waiter moved on. “It makes one long to be a boy again, to begin anew.”

  Alex didn’t judge him a day over thirty-five. A bit early to be mourning for lost boyhood. “Were you a bohemian in your youth, then?”

  “No, never. But if given the opportunity to revise? I think I would make a fine vagabond.”

  “Curious sentiment,” Alex said, “coming from a man who trades in property.”

  Barrington threw him an amused look. “I told you, I discuss no business when in Paris.” His regard returned to the piano, where Gwen was conferring with the accompanist.

  Alex was braced for disaster there. It had purchased him access to the man across from him, but the final balance between cost and profit would have to calculated later. Elma Beecham had seen them off this evening with a cheery Godspeed, but she had not imagined their itinerary continuing well into the small hours of the night. Nor would she have suspected that her charge would be masquerading as some sort of music hall temptress, and taking every secret opportunity to try to wrestle her neckline lower than the milliner had ever intended.

  For that matter, he did not like the way Barrington watched her. The man showed no evidence of being dangerous, but he certainly had proven himself to be acquisitive.

  Gwen shook out her skirts, squared her shoulders, and mounted the stage. Nobody took note of her. The place was filled to the rafters, but by reputation, the crowd at Chat Noir proved notoriously difficult to impress. It had its favorite composers and singers and poets—those who earned their fame through regular recitals here—but the rest, it either did a kindness by ignoring, or a savage cruelty by dismissing, in the middle of performances, at very high and often profanity-laced volume.

  Sink or swim, Alex supposed: every fledgling learned the same way.

  Gwen’s breasts rose and fell on a long breath. Nervous, no doubt. She looked across the crowd at him, and he barely recognized the smile that curved her lips. Perhaps it was a trick of the dim light and her adjusted neckline and this role she’d decided to play, but it occurred to him, suddenly, that he might not know her as well as he thought.

  He lifted his glass to her. A mischievous angle took over her smile. She transferred it then to Barrington, who promptly bowed from the waist and sketched a pretty flourish with his hand.

  Bohemian, hell. The man was practically a relic of the Regency, with that gesture.

  I really should be in Lima, Alex thought, and he took a long swallow of his drink.

  The pianist launched into the first bars of the melody. Bizet—the Habanera aria from Carmen. Christ. Unfortunate choice. It required a certain earthiness that she would never manage to pull off.

  And then Gwen opened her mouth and began to sing.

  Glass to lips, he froze.

  From the very first bar, it became clear why she’d kept him, and everyone else, ignorant of her talent: her voice did not belong in drawing rooms.

  Table by table, silence spread.

  “Quand je vous aimerai?” she sang. “When will I love you? Heavens, I’ve no idea. Maybe never, maybe tomorrow . . . but certainly not today!”

  An odd panic fleeted through him—an irrational impulse to stand and leave, or to plug his ears like a frightened boy.

  A cheer went up from the back. Her lashes fluttered in startled, gratified reply. Then she threw a wink at the audience.

  More cheers, now. God help him, her hand was slipping toward her skirts. She hiked up her hem, flashing an ankle as she launched into the next verse.

  “Love is a rebellious bird that nobody can tame. You will call her in vain, if it suits her better to refuse . . .”

  As she twirled, her skirts rose higher yet. She was wearing white silk stockings embroidered with scarlet flowers. Her calves were as slim and firm as a can-can dancer’s.

  He felt certain that he had not needed to know this.

  Indeed, he had not needed to know what her voice sounded like, either. It seemed to wrap around him as sinuously as her arms had done, pressing like a palm against his throat, soft and hot, poised equally to caress or to throttle him. There was power in that voice—power too rich and dark for a sheltered, untested debutante.

  But she was not untested, of course. How hard he had tried to forget this: that she had lost and suffered, just as he had. If her smiles came easily, that was not a testament to shallowness or inexperience. It was a testament to her peculiar, unfaltering strength.

  “My God,” Barrington breathed. “Where did you find this girl, de Grey? That’s no common music hall voice.”

  Alex drew a long breath. Oh, the music hall might be a good start. But Barrington was right. A voice such as hers—as low and smoky as an army encampment, able to transform a mildly risqué French aria into a pornographic fantasy�
��probably deserved a rarer setting. A harem, say.

  Or his bed.

  He felt a smile twist his lips. Yes, better to think of that—of beds, and bare limbs, and sweat. Wiser, safer, to focus on what he could slot under the common label of lust.

  She dropped her skirts and spun, hands lifting in mimicry of a flamenco dancer, her voice low and silken. “Love is the child of Bohemia; it has never, ever recognized any law . . .”

  Richard’s mother had briefly been an actress.

  This piece of information disgorged itself wholesale into his consciousness. He could not recall the conversation in which he’d learned it, or any of the details, but he felt certain he was correct.

  A strange sensation passed through him. He looked at Gwen with new eyes now. She was doing more on that stage than having a little fun, as she’d put it. She was flaunting something that she had spent most of her life learning to conceal.

  His will seemed to split apart beneath the revelation, as neatly halved as beneath a blade.

  He rather liked her as she’d been. The Gwen he knew was manageable.

  Then again, he’d always thought she could be a great deal more.

  He cleared his throat and massaged one wrist. His pulse was banging like a jackhammer. Idiot. All right, bully for Gwen; she was cutting up her heels now in a very fine fashion. But her talents, her courage, had nothing to do with him.

  As the pianist segued into the passage that would rightly be sung by the opera chorus, Gwen lifted her hand and curled her fingers in invitation to the crowd. First one man, and then another, picked up the lyrics; as they sang, her eyes found his, sly humor tipping her smile to one side.

  The smile jarred him. For a brief moment, he felt thoroughly disoriented—as on those rare occasions when he looked into a window pane and realized, between one blink and the next, that what he had mistaken for a reflection was, in fact, the true scene behind the glass. He forced his attention away from her, though it balked and wanted to linger; he focused on mundane moorings, on the words the drunkards were singing at her bidding. And as he listened with ferocious single-mindedness, understanding suddenly dawned on him.